Windfall

'Didn't bother to ask,' said Parker. 'But he was a foreigner – not American. He had a funny accent like I've never heard before.'

Hardin questioned them further but got nothing more, then said, 'Well, could I have the address of the owner of the house. She might know." He got the address and also the address of the local realtor who had negotiated the rental. He looked at his watch and found it was late. 'Looks like the day's shot. Know of a good motel around here?'

'Why, yes,' she said. 'Go south until you hit Riverside, then turn west. There are a couple along there before you hit the turning to Laurel Canyon.'

He thanked them and left, hearing the door slam behind him and the rattle of the chain. It was still raining; not so hard as before but still enough to drench him before he reached the shelter of his car. He was wet and gloomy as he drove away.

His motel room was standard issue and dry. He took off his wet suit and hung it over the bath, regarded it critically, and decided it needed pressing. He wondered if Gunnarsson would stand for that on the expense account. Then he took off his shirt, hung it next to the suit, and padded into the bedroom in his underwear. He sat at the table, opened his briefcase, and took out a sheaf of papers which he spread out and regarded dispiritedly- His shoulders sagged and he looked exactly what he was – a failure. A man pushing fifty-five with a pot belly, his once muscular body now running to fat, his brains turning to mush, and the damned dandruff was making his hair fall out. Every time he looked at his comb he was disgusted.

Ben Hardin once had such high hopes. He had majored in languages at the University of Illinois and when he had been approached by the recruiter he had been flattered. Although the approach had been subtle he was not fooled; the campus was rife with rumours about the recruiters and everyone knew what they were recruiting for. And so he had fallen for the flattery and responded to the appeals to his patriotism because this was the height of the Cold War and everyone knew the Reds were the enemy.

So they had taken him and taught him to shoot – handgun, rifle, machine-gun taught him unarmed combat, how to hold his liquor and how to make others drunk. They told him of drops and cut-outs, of codes and cyphers, how to operate a radio and many other more esoteric things. Then he had reported to Langley as a fully fledged member of the CIA only to be told bluntly that he knew nothing and was the lowest of the low on the totem pole.

In the years that followed he gained in experience. He worked in Australia, England, Germany and East Africa. Sometimes he found himself working inside his own country which he found strange because the continental United States was supposed to be the stamping ground of the FBI and off-limits to the CIA. But he obeyed orders and did what he was told and eventually found that more than half his work was in the United States.

Then came Watergate and everything broke loose. The Company sprang more holes than a sieve and everyone rushed to plug up the leaks, but there seemed to be more informers than loyal Company men. Newspaper pages looked Like extracts from the CIA files, and the shit began to fly. There were violent upheavals as the top brass defended themselves against the politicians, director followed director, each one publicly dedicated to cleaning house, and heads duly rolled, Hardin's among them.

He had been genuinely shocked at what had happened to the Company and to himself. In his view he had been a loyal servant of his country and now his country had turned against ' him. He was in despair, and it was then that Gunnarsson approached him. They met by appointment in a Washington bar which claimed to sell every brand of beer made in the world. He arrived early and, while waiting for Gunnarsson, ordered a bottle of Swan for which he had developed a taste in Australia.

When Gunnarsson arrived they talked for a while of how the country was going to hell in a handcart and of the current situation at Langley. Then Gunnarsson said, 'What are you going to do now, Ben?'

Hardin shrugged. 'What's to do? I'm a trained agent, that's all. Not many skills for civilian life.'

'Don't you believe it,' said Gunnarsson earnestly. 'Look, Fletcher and I are setting up shop in New York.'

'Doing what?'

'Same racket, but in civilian form. The big corporations are no different than countries. Why, some of the internationals are bigger than goddamn countries, and they've all got secrets to protect – and secrets to find. My God, Ben; the field's wide open but we've got to get in fast before some of the other guys who were canned from Langley have the same idea. We wait too long the competition could be fierce. If this Watergate bullshit goes on much longer retired spooks will be a drug on the market.'

Hardin took a swig of beer. 'You want me in?'